


Close Your Eyes

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Redemption, s10e23 Brother's Keeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sam refused to close his eyes, and one time he did. Episode tag for s10e23 (season finale) "Brother's Keeper."</p><p>
  <em>Sammy, close your eyes. I don't want to see my own reflection in your tears.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes

“Close your eyes, Sammy,” you whisper, but you can see the flashing red lights of the fire engines reflected off the glassy surface of those wide orbs, and though you are only four years old you know somehow that the memory of that fascinated and uncomprehending gaze will haunt you till your dying day.

“Close your eyes,” you order, and you smile to yourself as he pretends to obey, blinking through his fingers as you shove the brightly-colored piece of candy (your supply is rapidly dwindling, you note with dismay) past the gap in his teeth, and as he triumphantly declares “Red!” you feign suitable admiration for his self-proclaimed ability to determine the color of peanut M&Ms by taste alone.

“Sammy, close your eyes,” you shout as Dad inches the Impala past the accident site in a snakey line of cars on the narrow, curving road, waved through by a scared-looking cop who appears little older than yourself; but it’s a mistake, you know, for your brother’s curiosity will win out over you every time, and as he cranes his neck and leans over your lap to get a look out your window you hope that he can’t see the blood streaked like paint spatter on the ground.

“Close your eyes,” you mutter, suddenly extraordinarily self-conscious, and when he pauses in his toothbrushing to look at you like you’ve suddenly grown an extra head, you sigh and grit your teeth and undress as quickly as possible, but not quickly enough, because later he remarks that he didn’t realize it was even possible to get pimples on your ass, and when Dad surveys the results of the ensuing melee he wants to know if you two were trying to drown each other, and he’s actually not far off the mark but even so, you are truly sorry you made your brother’s nose bleed.

“Close your eyes, Sam,” you murmur in his ear, because oh fuck, he’s really pale, and you’re afraid he’ll faint, or maybe you’re afraid _you’ll_ faint; you’ve never stitched him up before and that huge open gash looks nasty and perhaps beyond your skill (you should take him to the ER, you think for the hundredth time and wish that Dad were there), but he shakes his head and says he wants to see how you do it, so you bite your lip and get on with it without another word; when it’s over and you can breathe and your heart is beating normally again you don’t know who you’re more proud of, yourself or your little brother.

*****

“Sammy, close your eyes,” you beg, and you know he won’t do it, because he never has, and how is it, you wonder, that he’s able to condense a lifetime of love into a single glistening look?

_(Sammy close your eyes I don’t want to see my own reflection in your tears)_

“Forgive me,” you say, because you can’t say the other thing, not even now ( _thank you for making my last moments on earth socially awkward_ ); somewhere deep down you don’t believe this is real, and maybe he doesn’t either because is that a ghost of a smile, the ghost of a thousand witty comebacks ( _it’s okay I didn’t want any taquitos anyway_ ) or possibly a thousand gentle memories ( _hey Dean do you remember how we used to sit on the hood of the Impala and look at the stars_ )?

The scythe is heavy in your hands; a scythe is a ridiculous weapon for anyone who’s not Death himself; you have a vague recollection of a short story about a farmer forced to become Death, wielding a scythe in a preternatural field of grain ( _hey Sam you remember a story like this what’s it called? Dean it’s called The Scythe_ )—what happens at the end?

You don’t really want to know.

_(Sammy close your eyes I can see my own reflection in your tears)_

_(Dean please this is you the real you look at yourself in my eyes and see what I see)_

You raise your weapon, and there is no thunderbolt; angels do not appear with a trumpet fanfare to stay your hand and congratulate you for passing the test; no convenient, conventional sacrificial substitute appears, and your brother shuts his red-rimmed eyes at last.

_Dean, my eyes are the only mirror you need._

You smile a little, a ghost of a smile, the ghost of a thousand witty comebacks and a thousand gentle memories.

You smile, for you can see yourself now, and your eyes are wide open when you swing.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "The Scythe" is a short story by Ray Bradbury, anthologized in _The October Country._ It begins, "Quite suddenly there was no more road."
> 
> Thank you for reading. I appreciate any feedback!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com) or on LJ at: [misplaced_ad.livejournal.com](http://misplaced_ad.livejournal.com)


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